Man skin and pretty eyes. Not Chris Evans blue, but this pretty green that seems to darken when he throws insults. I would refer to it as “meadow green.” Not that it matters, because it doesn’t. He’s rude and abhorrent.

And that apology was laughable. It wasn’t even an apology. And I felt myself sinking down to his level, tossing insults right back at him. That’s not something I do. I actually never get this wound up over anyone. Maybe I’m overreacting a little because I still haven’t had a chance to introduce myself to Mary DIY. Or any of the judges, for that matter, though they’re all standing at the other end of the set, clustered around what they’re calling a “craft services table.” Marco Vitally, the king of wedding invitations, is present, looking handsome as ever with his signature black hat and wedding-themed tattoos that cascade up his forearms and disappear under his shirtsleeves. Standing beside him is Henrietta Hornet, a staple in the wedding-planning community who started out her career throwing parties for children but is now world renowned for her lavish celebrity weddings. The type of weddings we peasants could only dream of. I ignore a stab of jealousy as she turns and murmurs something to our third judge, Katherine Barber, cake master with a perpetually sour face. She’s the reason there was an epidemic of lavender in cakes in New York City. She made it popular.

But Mary DIY, sigh, she’s a goddess with a pair of scissors, a goddess I have yet to say hi to. Not that meeting her is the reason I’m here, but hello, we’re breathing the same air—it would be nice if I could grab her attention for two seconds.

“Did you hear me?” Cohen asks, poking me in the side.

“What?”

“What’s going on with you? You’re acting weird.”

Giving Cohen my full attention, I turn my back on Team Baxter. “What were you doing in the bathroom for so long?”

“I peed and then grabbed a quick bite of a muffin. Thad was raving about them, so I wanted to try one. That okay with you, Mother?”

“Don’t call me that.”

Declan looks at his watch. “It’s been longer than five minutes. Think I can grab a muffin too?”

“Not if you’re going to take as long as Cohen.”

“Hey.” Cohen pokes me in the arm. “You’re the one who dragged us here, so lighten up.”

Guilt instantly hits me, and I press my hand to my forehead. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m just . . . irritated. That Alec guy really presses my buttons.”

“Which buttons?” Declan asks, raising his brows suggestively.

“Not those buttons.” Yes, those buttons. “While you guys were gone, Thad sent him over here to apologize, and all he did was pick a fight with me.”

“He’s scared,” Cohen says casually, as if he can see right into Alec’s soul. “Knows they don’t stand a chance against us.” Smiling for the first time since we’ve been here, he adds, “He knows the gays always win when it comes to weddings.”

“Facts.” Declan offers Cohen a fist bump, and just like that my mood brightens. I can see the excitement in their eyes, the confidence, and Cohen actually looks like he’s ready to tackle this competition.

I shake off the presence of Alec Baxter and set my drawing on the workbench. “Look at what I came up with for a chuppah.”

“We’re not Jewish,” Declan points out. “Not even close to it. Catholic and Chinese American, care to forget that?”

“Noooo,” I drag out. “You don’t have to be Jewish to be married under a chuppah. If we were sticking to Chinese tradition for Declan, then you guys would have multiple ‘costume’ changes, or at least the one who wants to act as the bride would.”

Both Declan and Cohen stare at each other for a second. “And who might the bride be?” Declan asks.

I smile. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No,” they say at the same time.

“Cohen. He’s more moody.” I wink and go back to my drawing as Declan laughs.

“I’m not moody,” Cohen grumbles but then hunkers down next to me as I lay out my chuppah idea.

“Okay, bro.” I pat his hand and turn to Declan. “This reminds me—are there any cultural traditions you would like included in the wedding?”

He nods. “The tea ceremony, but we can do that the night before the wedding. I spoke with my parents, and since it’s more of an intimate ceremony, they would like to keep it out of the spotlight. They would also like to be in charge, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

“Got it.” I smile. “Does Cohen need to wear a dress for that?”

Declan laughs out loud. “It will be required.”

“What’s a wedding without a theme?” Mary DIY says as she spreads her arms, shining brightly at the camera.

She’s so magical.

“The families are going to have thirty minutes to devise a wedding theme from the mystery objects behind me, which are meant to serve as inspiration. They are to create a vision board that incorporates an overall theme, colors, and a catchy phrase that describes their wedding. Once a family takes an object, that object is off the table, so think fast, families. Your dream wedding might be swiped away by another contestant before you can say ‘wedding bells.’ And remember, whatever you put on your vision board must be incorporated into your wedding, so be careful with what you choose.” Mary moves to the button that will flip down the curtain and reveal the vision-board materials. “Contestants ready?”

Clad in our team-color aprons—Rossi is pink, Hernandez is blue, and Baxter is purple—we all stand behind the competition line and get in position.

Before today, I sat down with Cohen and Declan and, knowing the show’s format, went over the challenges I knew we would face. We drew up plans for each one so we’d know what we’d be looking for going into each challenge. Preparation is key.

Prepared, I nod and get into a runner’s position, with reclaimed wood and tree trunks on my mind. Cohen is in charge of eucalyptus and greens. Declan must find all the lace and burlap.

“On your marks, get set . . . plan.” Mary hits the button. The curtain falls, revealing the giant display, and for a brief moment, I’m overwhelmed.

I’ve seen supply reveals many times, and I always shout at the contestants on TV to use their heads. I’ve never realized why they flail about until this very minute.

A large countdown clock is right above the display, there are what feels like a million options, and everyone is rushing to the table at the same time, causing such a commotion that you have no time to think.

Tulle and flowers, birdcages and vases, pearls and . . . gah! The insanity!

“Remember, whatever you grab and put on your workbench must be used!” Mary shouts as I finally snap out of it and hurry to the table where Team Hernandez is already digging in. They’ve grabbed a lace tablecloth. Damn it.

“Burlap, find the burlap!” I shout to Declan, who is furiously looking through a pile of tablecloths.

“Luna, mason jar,” Cohen says, tossing me a glass mason jar that I miraculously catch.

“Don’t throw things!” I yell, but I run it back to our workbench because it’s a great find.

“I don’t see any burlap!” Declan calls out.

“Keep searching!” I scream, my voice sounding more shrill than normal. At the very end of the table, I see wooden objects, and I quickly take off to grab them all—and run straight into Alec’s chest. Like I’ve run into a brick wall, I smash my face against his pecs and stumble backward. On my way down, I reach for anything to grab on to, which turns out to be Helen’s apron strings. She spins away from the table and lands on top of me.

“Sabotage!” she shouts as her arms flail around my head. “Judges, she is sabotaging me.”

“I am not!” I reply, trying to push her off me, desperate to get to the wood. “I accidentally grabbed on to you.” I glance up to find Alec staring down at me. For a brief second I can sense him wanting to reach out to help me up, but it’s fleeting, and he instead takes off, clutching a bundle of palm fronds. Jerk!

“She was headed for the wood. Luciana, grab the wood while I have her down!” Helen calls out, clearly not understanding the word accident.

“What? No! Get off me.” I try to shove the old woman now, but the broad holds her ground, pinning me to the floor. “Judges, judges, is this legal?” I look back toward the cameras and the crew, who are all just standing there, laughing. Great, I know what they’re thinking: perfect television.

Looks like it’s every man for himself.

“Cohen, the wood, for the love of God, the wood!”

Before I can locate Cohen, Alec steps over me to go back to the display, where Thad is running in place, hands on his head, yelling, “I can’t decide, I can’t decide! What? Naomi, put that down. We are not having a circus wedding! Are you out of your beautiful mind? You’re pregnant—go sit down.”

“Hey!” she replies, clutching the colorful glass figurine. “I’m carrying a child—I’m not an invalid.”

Thad gestures to me, still struggling to push away a fifty-year-old. “Do you see the mess of limbs on the ground? That could be you. Now put the clown down and step away from the table.”

“It’s not a clown, it’s a . . . a . . .”

“It’s a clown!” Thad shouts.